


A Visit from St. Gregory

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: A Mystrade spin on the poem 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.





	A Visit from St. Gregory

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,  
Nothing was stirring since MI6 had killed that mouse;  
The place was devoid of all kinds of holiday cheer,  
As Mycroft did not hold this time of year to be dear.  
He read through his reports, though they were all quite a bore,  
Feeling as empty as was his refrigerator;  
His waistcoat and shirt were rumpled, his tie had been shed,  
And his thoughts turned morosely to his cold, lonely bed;  
He stood from his desk, planning on the last piece of cake,  
When there came such a loud clatter the whole house did shake;  
With suspicion growing, to the window he did go,  
To find a fleet of police cars coming through the snow;  
Hearing a noise behind him, he turned and without shock,  
He beheld his bedraggled little brother, Sherlock.  
Words all a tumble, the erstwhile detective explained,  
While Mycroft gave him a look that was more and more pained;  
As Sherlock talked a host of police broke down the door,  
And they wrestled the protesting man flat to the floor;  
Mycroft snapped several photos, then moved to intervene,  
Still it took much time and more shouting to clear the scene;  
"Out, Donovan! Out, Anderson! Out, all you swine!  
Leave, Dimmock! And you too, O brother mine!  
Get out of my office! Get off my property!  
Begone! Begone! Begone and leave me!  
The mass of people began to file out once again,  
'Til only handsome Inspector Lestrade did remain.  
“Sorry to crash your Christmas like this,” he said wryly;  
“Oh, you never bother me,” Mycroft answered shyly;  
For the truth, obvious to even a passerby,  
Was that Mycroft did fancy the striking DI.  
Now that DI said, “I'll not take up your time anymore,”  
Just as Mycroft offered, “Let me show you to the door.”  
Lestrade looked surprised, but he also smiled bright;  
Still, he replied, “There's no need; I can find it alright.”  
Mycroft knew that grin would be a sight he'd treasure,  
He filed it away and said, “It is my pleasure.”  
When they reached the door they paused, both having more to say,  
Until finally Lestrade turned to be on his way;  
But he didn't see that the step was now an icy sheet,  
And stumbled, flailing wildly to keep his feet.  
Mycroft reached out a hand, hoping his fall to arrest,  
And they ended up clinging together chest to chest.  
With their faces so close the tension was hard to miss,  
Acting on instinct, they leaned together for a kiss.  
The kiss began gently, but soon it grew more heated,  
A change which both parties most happily greeted;  
Mycroft moaned, “Oh, Lestrade!” half a demand, half a beg,  
And the silver-haired man responded, “Please, call me Greg.”  
That earned a tug in for another kissing round,  
But the movement sent them falling to the snowy ground;  
Landing on top, Mycroft blushed bright red as a cherry,  
But Greg only kissed him again, laughing most merry;  
Right then Mycroft believed in a Christmas miracle,  
As Greg's chuckles continued, deep and most lyrical;  
He stretched his hand out to run through auburn hair so soft  
And said tenderly, “Happy Christmas to you, Mycroft.”


End file.
